


climb is all we know

by effies_tardis



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25374595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effies_tardis/pseuds/effies_tardis
Summary: Being a traitor is an inglorious thing, perhaps. — Effie Trinket and the Rebellion. (The remastered version. Rewritten from 2014).
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy/Effie Trinket
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	climb is all we know

**Author's Note:**

> remastered
> 
> tw: implications of self-harm and suicide attempt, mentions of rape (not-graphic) and torture (semi-graphic; will  
> be a continuing motif throughout), substance abuse, strong language, and consensual sexual situations.

Effie Trinket is thirty-four but she looks forty-five and feels eighty. It's when she spills her water on accident — three day's worth, unfortunately — and sums up the courage to look at herself in the murky pool, that she realizes this.

She isn't pretty right now, but they've got her feeling like she never was. The Capitol's sweetheart, sex symbol and poster child for the city's cosmetic metropolitan, has been washed with her own blood and sweat and tears; powdered makeup and red lipstick has been replaced with a swollen face and chapped lips, and a toned, slender figure has been replaced with a skeleton with skin clinging to her bones like spandex. It's gruesome and a bit disheartening, really. From the tallies they've etched on her skin (a calendar, if you will), she's been here for four weeks and it's been too long.

She isn't dying, but she might as well be.

And yes, there's always a lynchpin in an uprising, maybe a group of people with plans years old or a person with a brilliant, beautiful mind, but she is not one of them. Her crime is a simple one — conspiracy against the Capitol, as with the rest of the living tributes and escorts and mentors. Her cell block is shared with Peeta and the other surviving tributes of the Quell, but her cell is farther off from them and she doubts they know it's her. The rooms are soundproof when they want it to be, and the only person they don't touch is Annie because she's fragile and there's no victory in breaking something so delicate.

Effie, unfortunately, has been their favorite plaything for a long time now. Her cell is fine, she supposes — sure, it's cold and metallic and drains all mental stimulation out of her, but there's a toilet and a real bed and they mop the floor of her blood when it gets too much. It’s clean. She clings to that comfort - it’s more than what she can say for herself.

But there's a game they love to play and it's to see how much they can bend her before she breaks, how much skin they can take off of her before she convulses into sobs, how much they can prod her before she passes out, how much they can fuck her until she gives up. She doesn’t even know what they want out of her anymore. She doesn’t know what else she can even say to them.

Being a traitor is an inglorious thing, perhaps, but it makes her all the more desired.

.

They etch the two month mark into her back the night they bring her to Peeta's cell.

_(It's one of sixty scars she'll never really lose)_

The boy doesn't recognize her right away, partly because her face is not painted and partly because her face is yellowing from the bruises, but nonetheless he screams in absolute anger.

"Don’t _hurt_ her!" he shouts, voice raw with unbidden rage and fear. He struggles against his shackles, his protests growing louder, more desperate, more incoherent as the Peacekeeper behind her presses a gun at the base of her neck. " _Please_!" he pleads, his body slumping to the floor as he reaches for her with his free hand.

Effie's vision blurs with tears as the cool surface of the barrel touches her back. Faintly, she sees Peeta, his body as tired and wiry as hers, mirroring her own moves: knees bent on the floor, hands trembling, chest wrought with sobs. This is it. This is the end.

And she wants to tell Peeta that she's sorry, that he deserved so much better, that if she could, she'd want a son like him, but her mouth runs dry and her tears make everything messier.

_Bang._

_Bang._

Her ears ring as she collapses underneath the sudden pressure in her head. Faintly, she sees Peeta reach for her, only for the Peacekeepers to hold him back — _laughing_ , the nerve.

She should feel grateful to be alive. But as they begin to kick her down, she begins to think that she wouldn't have really minded dying.

.

 _They are_ so _creative_ , she thinks, as she remains tight-lipped, chained against a pole, in resolute silence as they scream horrible, horrible things at her.

They are whipping her with the same rope they use in the Districts. It’s so ironic, it hurts. They keep taunting her, calling her, “District whore” and “traitor” and the like. They’re mentioning Haymitch, she thinks, something about him leaving her, how useless she must have been, how disposable she is. _Was she even worth saving?_

The skin on her back is aching something fierce; the cuffs around her wrists are so tight, are cutting into her skin with every movement. It’s all she can think about - the pain, that is, and how fucking awful she’s going to feel tomorrow.

But Effie does not say anything at all, even when a Peacekeeper grabs her by the jaw and spits in her face.

Instead, she thinks wistfully at the last good memory she has before all of this happened. Of Haymitch, her oldest friend, in her bed, his hands on her body and how his eyes always seemed to soften whenever they fell on her. He was always so gentle. She wonders if he’d be gentle still, after the war - if they ever make it out, that is. If she ever makes it out.

 _Will he still like tea after dinner?_ she muses, closing her eyes when the Peacekeeper unchains her and drags her back to her cell by the hair.

She’s smiling, she realizes, when she meets Peeta’s eyes from across the hallway. 

It’s alright.

Perhaps she will get the chance to brew tea again.

.

Threadbare and listless, the days grow longer and her strength is stretched too thin. About thirty-three tallies later, she coughs up blood and wheezes at night. Somehow, she becomes responsible for the death of her worst tormentor and the punishments become few and far between but even worse when they occur.

The fact that they keep her alive is perhaps the most painful of all.

.

The rebels come one day, but they do not take her.

It's maybe summer or maybe it's autumn (the seasons don't change here) when they come, and it's Gale Hawthorne at the head with an entourage of soldiers behind him. Bullets fly, the tributes are accounted for, and Peeta is sedated before he can really tell them that she's here too.

She doesn't remember much, being completely honest, because she is dying and she's tired and there's no point anymore. The only thing that stands out — and after they leave, for the four weeks she has before they rescue her again, she still thinks about it — is Gale, a gun slung over his shoulder, passing by her cell for a few moments.

She remembers that he looked like a perfect soldier, hardened with war and ardent, unyielding, and that he stopped right in front of her. She had lifted her head slightly, puzzled at the commotion, though she knew somewhere in her frazzled mind what was happening. He looked at her straight in the eyes and did not waver.

For one second, she thought she saw hatred. And for another, she thought she saw pity. But time was running out for them and they had to go, and like a good soldier he turned away and marched on.

Effie forgets to cry about this, if only because she isn't surprised.

.

For the next month she is largely left alone.

The Peacekeepers almost abandon her cell block, only coming to feed her twice a week. She spends the month in solitude. Apparently, all reason to keep her alive has been extinguished; so it seems, even the Rebels do not want her.

And still, she persists they will come back. 

.

There are one hundred and twenty-three scars on her skin when they finally rescue her. The prison has been wiped — political prisoners saved (the dozen left, that is), the remaining Peacekeepers killed or deserted, leaving rats to swarm in want of food. They find her a skeleton, her ribs like a cage left to rust, her hips like little knives under her skin. She looks like a fucking mosaic, she thinks. She is the Capitol doll remodeled: blues and blacks and reds and yellows cover her pallid skin like she's a canvas. 

_How beautiful_ , she thinks to herself, or maybe she says it out loud - the woman holding her glances down at her with confusion flashing across her face. 

Effie lifts up her left arm to show the word “Traitor” burned into her skin. Her eyes feel so heavy, now. 

The drug they use to put her under sears through her veins like a poison. Her screams come out in laughs when they tell her that she might make it, and she curls on her side when she realizes that she will not die.

.

She wakes up nearly three days later and she wants to count the scars on her back to make sure that this is not a dream.

Her hospital room is white and sterile, so unlike her cell, so much like Heaven as in those banned books her grandmother read to her in whispers; is she — no, she's not dead. There's no one but a nurse and a young girl in her room, and both are busy with clipboards and vials of medicine. Almost immediately, Effie tries to get up, wary of the IV in her arm and the cuffs around her wrists, and panic washes over her when she sees the words District Thirteen written in the poster in front of her. The nurse lifts her head when she hears the EKG beeping faster, and when she notices that Effie is struggling against her restraints, she nearly runs over.

"Miss Trinket—" the nurse says calmly as she rushes to Effie's side. There's a rustle of fabric as the nurse leans over to subdue her, which only feeds to the chaos.

In her peripheral, Effie sees the girl turn and walk towards her, a syringe full of what looks to be morphling in her hand. As she comes closer, the former escort recognizes the girl: Primrose Everdeen. The young girl begins, edging towards her and pushing the nurse away gently.

"Primrose," Effie whispers under her breath, desperation steeped in her words. 

"You're safe now," the girl says with a small smile.

Distantly, Effie feels the morphling absorb all her panic and pull her under a cloud of serenity. Effie sighs, her heartbeat reverting back to a safe pace, mumbling, "Thank you."

Prim hums quietly and reaches down to unlock her handcuffs, Effie's wrists raw and her scars reddening slightly upon release. The escort settles back into the bed, and without meaning to, she asks, "Where's your sister? Peeta?"

"Katniss is on a mission to the Capitol, along with Peeta and Finnick," Prim says as she fixes the sheets around Effie. She pauses ever so slightly - then continues, “They haven’t been gone for long.”

Finnick. The name is familiar to Effie, and then she remembers — the victor from District Four, a friend, an ally. Pieces of pre-prison life float back to her as Prim rambles on about life in District Thirteen. The small mentions of Rebellion from Plutarch that she had picked up on between hushed dinners and coded phone calls. The planning around the revolution. The Victory Tour. Her brother and his wife having their second child. Her father dying. The Quell. The explosion.

Effie licks her lips when a name comes to her. "Where is Haymitch?"

Prim looks up suddenly, then says slowly, "He's uh — he's taking care of the mission with Katniss. I think he'll be back tonight, but I doubt you'll be awake."

"I've been sleeping for three months now," Effie whispers, and her words come out bitter when she hadn't wanted them to.

The girl doesn't really say much in reply, sans a feeble, "Haymitch will be glad that you are awake."

.

Haymitch comes in silently. She almost doesn't notice, if not for his feet bumping against the bed and his bag falling from his shoulders and onto the floor. She sits straighter and he moves forward just a bit. Effie is unsure how to go about this. She's positive that he doesn't, either.

"You're — "

"I'm — "

They stop short to let the other finish.

Haymitch wets his lips as he turns his head slightly to look outside the window. She follows his gaze, staring but not really _looking_ at the medics and patients moving in such a flurry that her mind registers it as a blur. Effie watches his jaw clench tight, the muscles taut under his stubble.

"You're awake," he says finally.

"I'm awake," she confirms.

"Are you — " he begins, but then shakes his head. "Peeta was really torn up about you being left behind. When he comes back — if he comes back — I think you two should talk."

For the first time in the longest time, Effie has no idea what to say. "Okay," she attempts, but there's too many things between them that have to be said and both of them are avoiding it. Uncomfortably, she shifts in the bed.

"Is that all you want to say?" she asks.

He laughs, but it's not the same as before, not really. "Fuck if I know." Shaking his head, he gestures to the space beside her, "Can I?"

She nods. "Go ahead."

A silence falls once again. She stiffens all too noticeably when he accidentally brushes up against her.

"Do you — "

"Did it — "

Again, they trap themselves in the inability to get their timing down. She continues, eyeing him warily, "Did it ever occur to you that there was a possibility that I might've died?"

(She doesn't watch him when he sighs, but she knows that it is because she is right.)

Haymitch waits awhile before he finally decides on what to say. "It did. And I'm sorry."

Her mind goes to the nights spent chained to a wall, waiting for horrible, horrible men to be done with her. Tears burn her eyes, then. She refuses to let her mind wander farther than that. She understands fear now, that she is sure of.

"I ought to hate you," she tells him.

"You ought to hate me," he echoes sadly.

"Haymitch," she says impatiently, "Do you even know what they did to me?"

_She remembers calling for him one night. All she wanted was to be near to him. So stupidly pathetic, she knows._

“ _Haymitch_ ,” Effie says again, shakily this time. “They did so many awful things. I bled everyday for _months_. You don’t even know.”

The shrug he gives is noncommittal and nonchalant. He doesn’t mean it, she knows.

_Flashes of lashings and bleeding and screaming and wanting to die._

She quickly blinks away tears.

He looks at her again. "I read your file, sweetheart. It ain't the prettiest fairytale I've read, no."

 _Astonishing_. "So—"

He cuts in, leaning forward to grab her hand, "I'm really sorry, Effie, I really am."

.

Four days later, Prim tells her she can check out of the hospital, because although her scars are lengthy and abundant, they've mostly healed. Those one hundred twenty-three scars that occupy the space between her shoulder blade and her spine are not crimson with rage but paled with healing; in a year, they'll be just lines, and in several, they might completely fade.

They don't talk about the word "traitor" branded into her skin. They don't mention the jagged, ugly thing that runs along her ribs. Or the marks from the lashings she received over the last few months. Those will never heal completely, never leave her, but she supposes there should be a constant in her life. Prim's dainty fingers trace over the horizontal scars that have faded over Effie's wrist — memories of a night too long and too painful for anyone to live in wash over her.

The cell might be gone, but she never really leaves.

.

She ends up across the hall from Haymitch, and they give her a day to adjust before she's off to the grind. It's not really freedom in District 13. It's more of a routine, strict and rigorous, that dictates an entire life in a span of twenty-four hours; there is no room to breathe between the chores, but she supposes that's a good thing for her.

The people here don't like her. Sunken, heavily-lidded eyes, clothes too baggy, a body that makes her look like a coat hanger, scars that zig-zag her arms — these do not faze them, because after all, this is what she deserves. She trudges on anyway, working the kitchen half-heartedly, eating like she's been starved, and utilizing her rest time with Prim and Annie, who tells her that she is pregnant with Finnick's child. Johanna is not as warm as Annie is, but is less cold to her at the same time. Effie tries her best to avoid her, but Thirteen is small and there's only so much time you can spend holding yourself up in your bedroom. The victor makes it her job to mention how prettily she screams whenever they cross paths, but while it stings, it's oddly comforting, too. Effie remembers Johanna tried to make her laugh one night. She remembers that she did not succeed.

And Haymitch is, as strange as it is to her, busy with Katniss and the Rebellion, and on the off chance he's not, he spends his time with the other victors. She doesn't hate him for it — she should have known, after all this time, that he has never liked her, and why should he waste his time with her when he doesn't have to?

Effie has always wondered how it feels to be a machine without a purpose, to work without really wanting to.

( _Not that she liked being an escort, but at least..._ She doesn't want to complete that thought.)

Now, she'd give anything to take this life away.

.

Waking up on her own accord is incredibly hard. Usually, it's because of these nightmares, the ones that are too vivid and too familiar and just too much. But tonight is a blessing, with no resurfaced memories and instead a simple dream of her being home with her parents and her brother and her nephews —

She remembers in the morning that her father is dead, her mother is a sympathizer, and her brother was killed just for fuckin' fun.

(And for conspiracy against the Capitol, too, but mostly just to see her break.)

And now it's four in the morning and she is alone in her economy-sized bedroom, in a nightie that is coarse against her coarser skin, terrified of going back to sleep because there's only so many blessings you can receive in a lifetime. Her feet lead her across the room, across the hall, into the cold and into Haymitch's bedroom where he is working. He isn't totally surprised that she is awake and here.

"About damn time, Princess," he says as he sets down the papers in his hands. He manages a smirk. "I got tired of hearing you scream."

Her eyes scatter all over the room and it's clean, for once. She lets her stare linger on the files on his desk and she sees hers underneath schedules and other things that don't seem to matter to him, or to her, either. She says nothing about it even though she so desperately wants to. Instead, she picks up her pace and almost (nearly) runs into him. Thankfully, he's already anticipating what she's doing (and has been wanting to do for a long time) and catches her when she falls into him.

Her fingers clutch at his stained shirt as he envelops her, arms encircling her whole, hands fisting the sides of her uniform like she might disappear. Faintly, she notes that her bones are not as fragile as she and him and everyone else thought.

"Haymitch — I'm so tired," she murmurs, her words plummeting and plummeting from heights she never knew was there. He struggles to pick up the pieces that seem to crumble off her, and she's so, so tired to notice and so grateful for him. _All I wanted was to be nearer to you_ , she doesn’t say. She hopes he understands.

"I know, I know," he says into her shoulder, where her hair is matted against her skin with her sweat and tears. "I know, Effs, I'm so sorry."

He will never stop apologizing, she thinks, because between her being left behind twice and her never being quite the same for the rest of her life, there is a part of her that she'll never get back and he blames himself for it. One day, the banter will reoccur, the fights will begin again, and he will drink and she will nag — one day, but not today, and even then an apology will always go unsaid. He hugs her tighter, closer, and she starts to cry despite the fact that she thought she never would again.

.

"I think I'll name my son Finnick," Annie mentions to her and Johanna during lunch the day Finnick is killed in action. Effie freezes and the victor drops her fork and knife suddenly — people stare as Johanna stands up and towers over the recent widow.

"Your husband's fucking _dead_ ," Johanna screeches. Without another word, she spins and walks off, and Effie thinks she's crying but she's not sure.

Annie lets out a bated breath. "Well, Effie," she starts shakily, resting a hand over her belly. "What do you think? What would you name your son?"

"Theodotus," Effie says after some thought. "After my brother. It means 'given by God.'" She begins digging into her food again, a reason slipping from her lips, "He died, too."

Annie's eyes drop to her belly. "Do you believe in Him? God, I mean."

 _God has left me_ , she thinks.

Effie shakes her head slightly, hesitantly. "I did, once, a long time ago."

Annie hums in reply.

They finish their meals in silence and even though they should leave immediately after they're done, they linger on like ghosts. The cafeteria empties and then it's just them and the clock ticking down the minutes left of lunch.

"Theodotus Finnick Odair. It has a nice ring to it," Annie says finally. She muses softly, "Theo, for short. But the name is yours."

"Take it," Effie says suddenly, her eyes drooping closed, "I can't have kids."

The bell rings and they both divide without many words, but Annie grabs her shoulder comfortingly for a few seconds before Effie leaves for work.

.

One day, bombs explode in the sky like fireworks and Prim dies, after all that has been done for her.

Plutarch quite literally shoves her into a hovercraft and they go, because Katniss is there and Prim is dead and this isn't _good_. Haymitch holds her hand as Fulvia lists things that she has to do — calm down Katniss, be normal, be you, dress up as —

" _No_ ," Effie says, shaking her head at the last request.

Fulvia lowers her clipboard slightly. "What do you mean, _no_?"

"I won't dress up like before. Katniss will hate me," Effie tells her, eyes widening at the thought. "I will hate me."

"It will give Katniss some normalcy for once, Effie," Fulvia argues. She glances at Haymitch when she says, "And lest you forget what great lengths Plutarch and Haymitch went to convince Coin to lift your execution. Don't be ungrateful. We need you."

This, Effie did not know. She withdraws her hand from Haymitch's quietly and without much preamble; there will time to talk later, she decides. She notices Fulvia realize her mistake and cast her eyes back to her clipboard.

"Please," Fulvia whispers.

Haymitch reaches behind her and runs his fingers down her arm. "Fine," Effie says.

Satisfied, Fulvia accepts this and prattles on and on about other things, but either Effie chooses to not listen or it happens accidentally. A fury unravels within her, because damn it, she doesn't want the colors anymore — not now, not ever. The only thing she notices is Haymitch's lips pressing against the side of her temple, softly and gently, like the world's burning and she's the only one left. She leans into him and waits for her breathing to even. There will be time to talk later.

.

Snow's wife's spare room is empty and this is where Plutarch brings her to get dressed. The rebels who rescued her had found her dress that she wore the day she was arrested and brought it with her — Fulvia managed to scrub the stains out and it is almost as good as new.

Sans the fact that it doesn't fit Effie quite right, but whatever.

"I want you to know that I think you look beautiful," Plutarch announces as he zips up the back of her dress. His fingers brush against a few of the tallies left on her shoulder before he pats her back encouragingly. She lifts her eyes and watches him through the mirror, then settling her eyes on her own. The bags that tell of sleeplessness must go, and the glaring scars and nearly-healed bruises must be covered up. She reaches for the makeup that Fulvia brought with her and begins to paint her face, slowly at first, then comfortably again.

"Thank you, Plutarch," she murmurs as she pats her face with foundation.

"You father would've been extraordinarily proud," he tells her. Stepping back to let her continue, he turns to observe the frames that hang on the walls.

"Did you know," Effie says cautiously, "that Theodotus is dead?"

Plutarch bows his head for a moment. "Yes. What a shame to waste a brilliant mind."

"Was he really part of the Rebellion?"

The former Gamekeeper, like the man he is, only shakes his head pitifully. Effie inhales deeply and pushes the overwhelming sorrow away, as far as she could, because today she will not spill tears for the dead. She lines her eyes with fluorescent colors and applies gold to her lips, somewhat sad that her mask is back on.

"I'll be out, Euphemia," Plutarch says softly.

(It really pains her that this man is the only sort of family she has left.)

.

Katniss is surprised to see her, but then again, it's because she's not really supposed to be alive. Effie goes on with the lines she used before — it's a big, big, big day, and that there's a schedule to follow and oh! She'll be right back.

The moment the door shuts behind her, she slams her fists against a wall and she wants nothing but to wipe this shit off her face and go home.

.

Haymitch accidentally brushes up against her when he exits the room full of victors, like he wanted to avoid her but couldn't.

"You voted yes," she accuses. She backs him up against a wall, her fingers jabbing him in the chest as her nails dig into her skin. "You fucking voted _yes_."

It is the first time she curses at him, or at anyone really, and it makes her feel empowered.

"I did what's best, Princess," he sneers, grabbing her wrist and pulling her off him, throwing her to the side. Something deplorable is evident in his expression and she wants to tear his face off right then and there.

"This isn't what's best, this is _revenge_ ," she says in an angry sob, spitting the last word out like poison. She presses her hand against her face and screams, "This is not what the war was about!"

"Why do you care?" he yells back, spinning around to meet her halfway. He points at her with an open palm and laughs mirthlessly, "You can't even fucking have kids, Trinket."

This hits her like a goddamn train going faster than the speed of light and it hurts so, so bad. The tears flow freely now, and something like regret flashes in his eyes and he looks like he wants to take it back. But predictably, he doesn’t, and instead he walks away.

She throws the nearest thing at him — a book, as it is — and screams after him, "I have a _nephew_ , you son of a bitch!"

(When he's gone, she slumps to the floor and sobs and sobs until Plutarch finds her a mess.)

.

Coin is killed and Effie wants to scream.

Haymitch takes Katniss away and Peeta is left behind, guards pushing past him and people pulling at him in the chaos. Effie rushes for him, heels be damned and left on the sidewalk. He is startled when she yanks on the sleeve of his jacket, but then she is immediately met with his arms around her and his voice shaken with joy the moment she pulls them into an alley.

"Thank God," he tells her, and he’s crying, she thinks.

"Peeta—"

"I thought you were dead."

Effie withholds a dry sob and cradles the back of his head, moving to accommodate him against her chest. The boy shrinks ten sizes smaller and she holds him tighter, and the both of them are crumbling in an alleyway in the City Circle. She sinks her lips into his hair and she feels like he is an orphan she's been left to take care of.

(When her bracelet slips down her forearm as he sobs against her, she realizes that he really is.)

"I'm here," she says shakily. "It's okay, Peeta, I'm here."

He only pulls her in closer in response.

.

Effie lingers in her room at Thirteen and waits for nothing in particular. Her bags are packed and she is due for the Capitol in a few hours; Katniss's trial is nearing its end and she hasn't seen anybody worthwhile since the death of the two presidents. Once, she saw Annie on her way to the train station, but there was nothing new to say other than a goodbye and a promise of a visit. Peeta was somewhere in therapy, Katniss was in solitary confinement, Plutarch was busy redesigning the country, and Haymitch was not someone she'd want to talk to at the moment.

(This is a lie.)

There was no one left she loves, she thinks as she downs the leftover whiskey she stole from the aforementioned mentor's bedroom.

And as if it was a godsend, someone knocks on her door and she has to wonder who would be up at three in the morning. She already knows the answer before she even opens the door. "Haymitch," she breathes.

"Princess," he begins a bit too coarsely, too roughly but it's just like before and she savors it. He stumbles into her room and it occurs to her that he might be a little drunk. She doesn't care, if only because she is, too. Effie closes the door behind her and she knows that there's no going back from this point on.

"I'm fuckin' _drunk_ right now, but not enough to think that this is a good idea," he finishes, and he grabs her by the waist and pulls her against him. He leans his forehead against hers, their lips this close but not close enough, and she's sick of it and sick of him and damnit, she's so tired of being tired. So she musters up whatever courage is left in her and pushes him against the wall, her lips falling onto his, and she is holding onto him so tightly in case he ever disappears again.

Haymitch eyes her with curiosity, like she is the eighth wonder in the world and that she would be his undoing. Seam grey meets a faded blue, and she wants to tell him that she loves him even though she's not really sure of what they were or what they are anymore.

"You're better blonde," he says with a smile before he trails kisses down her stomach, her hips, her thighs. She'd argue, but it comes out in a moan and she probably could break his neck with her legs if she's not careful. He climbs back over her and tells her sweet nothings in her ear, but they register as stars and galaxies and wonderful things as he pushes inside her. And when they fall from their high, he kisses her sweetly, soberly, and she wonders with languor if either of them were really drunk in the first place.

.

"I leave in three hours," Effie tells him.

"I leave in two," he challenges.

Her bare back is against his chest and she wants him closer than they are now. He dips down and kisses her shoulder and she feels like she'll burst into tears at any moment, but right now is not the time for crying or goodbyes. There will be time later.

"Why are you going back to the Capitol?" he asks as he moves his thumb in lazy circles on her taut stomach. He shifts so that they're both comfortable, and idly, he waits for a reply.

She doesn't have a good reason, but she tries. "Because the Capitol is home, in the end."

"They hate you," Haymitch tells her.

"They all hate me," she challenges.

"I don't." He traces the ugly, branded word that sits on her arm. “I never did.”

Words fail her when she attempts to say something that he deserves to hear. So instead, she turns in his arms and cradles his cheek in her hand. She runs her thumb across the contours of his face, and it's like she's a mapmaker and he is uncharted territory. Effie presses her lips against his for good measure.

(There will be time to talk later, she decides as they drift off to sleep.)

.

When she wakes, he's already gone.

There's not really a better way, anyway.

.

Capitol life is not as golden as it once was.

The people left seem to know that she is a traitor — despite all the sweaters she wears in the blistering heat to cover up any memories of rebellion — and they make it their job to point it out when they can. She holes up with Fulvia and Plutarch — outcasts, too, but at least they have each other as weird as it is — and she has never wanted to leave more than she does now.

"You suffocate here," Plutarch tells her during dinner one night. "You need to leave if you want to be happy."

She has to laugh. "Where would I even go?"

He shrugs. "I hear Haymitch is lonely, too."

.

It's not a surprise to anyone when she arrives in District Twelve. Peeta takes her home — to Haymitch, actually, but it's all the same. She finds him surrounded by geese in the afternoon, cursing at the damned birds and utterly giving up on feeding them. And when he looks up at her, she almost stops breathing, as stupidly lovesick as it is. She walks and walks and runs; he catches her, and he clutches her closer like she would dare to disappear.

.

"...one hundred twenty three," he finishes counting, his fingers remaining on her lower back, lingering on the last scar before he circles his arms around her. "On hundred twenty-three," she confirms. "One hundred twenty-three days in hell," she adds bitterly.

"I'd kill the men who did this to you," he offers, but it's a piss-poor attempt at comfort and he knows it. She pulls his hand to her lips. "Fuck them," she murmurs into his skin.

"Princess," he says to her, sighing into the crook of her neck. "I think I'm in love with you."

.

The war never really ends, not really, but Katniss and Peeta marry, have kids, and those kids grow older right before their eyes. Miracles are made in District Twelve and it's happy, satisfyingly so.

Effie and Haymitch do not have this ending. Instead, they fight over curtains and the geese and the cat she accidentally adopts a couple years after she moves in. He drinks and she nags, and sometimes, on particularly bad days, she drinks with him.

Effie relearns to grow into her regular pace. Everyday is movement after movement after movement, and gradually, she fills herself with her old self — the schedules, the useless chatter, the fawning over the kids and later, their kids. Sometimes, she pauses. When she opens the cupboard to make hot chocolate for the eldest Mellark. When she takes the cat to the marketplace and her fingers skim over the spice she needs for the stew. When she nightmares and she stays in bed for the entire day in complete, deafening silence. When Haymitch kisses her neck by the fire and she is seized with crippling fear over absolutely nothing. Sometimes she pauses and she is thrown back into the cell and forced to relive things she'd rather leave behind. But most of the time, it's good and it's happy and she carries Rosie Mellark on her hip, holds her hand, drives her to school, takes her to the Capitol, and watches her marry someone. And again with Caleb, the boy.

This is a happy life, she thinks. A proper, happy life.

.

The kettle on the stove begins to steam. Effie turns to turn off the heat and finds Haymitch has already beat her to it, and has prepared two cups of tea for the both of them. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, nodding to the paused movie on the television in the other room.

He hands off her mug to her and Effie smiles. Widely, this time.

“Of course."

**Author's Note:**

> Remastered A/N: Wow, it’s been almost six years since I first wrote this fic. I’ve graduated college since then, and have moved onto other, more serious ventures, but I will always be indebted to the time I spent writing about my favorite ship from one of my favorite book serieses. In a conversation I had with my boyfriend, I lamented the fact that I haven’t written anything remotely original that isn’t academic/social science oriented in years. In pursuit of reigniting my passion, I have tried to rewrite my favorite fic. The original rendition of this has been taken down in the years I have grown up, but I am reposting the remastered version here for posterity. Of course, let me know what you think. It has been awhile…. Special thanks to my boyfriend and my best friend for being supportive of this. And to the song “In This Shirt” by the Irrepressibles for fueling the angst.
> 
> Original A/N: My writer's block faded around 3:25 AM and don't question why I was up when it's the start of winter  
> break because lol. All mistakes are the product of sleeplessness and my damned need to publish something right  
> away. Hayffie are my babies and Mama!Effie is like, my favorite thing ever. I sincerely hope this means I'm back  
> on my hayffie grind, but, well, we'll see where my inspiration takes me. I love reviews, dearies, and I would  
> appreciate one if you have the time! Thanks in advance!
> 
> Original Footnote: the title comes from my absolute favorite song in the world and it's called "wash." by bon iver.  
> there's some unpopular opinions and such in the fic, notably the fact that hayffie never marries or makes babies.  
> also, and it's really really really vague here idk if you guys even picked up on it, but i made plutarch effie's uncle  
> (by marriage) and decided to make their relationship a bit more ... reluctant familial (?) but nonetheless a close  
> one. does that even make sense proBABALY NOT SORRY. and did i mention mama!effie warms my heart i love  
> the idea that she and peeta are close omg. ok. enough footnote it's like 5 am and i won't reread this until after i  
> publish s/o to future tori bYE.


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